


Thunder

by Senket



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abandonment, Emotional Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-15 11:45:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/526957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Senket/pseuds/Senket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian Moran is dying in the rain. He could survive, if he tries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thunder

He always hated rain. It ruins his visibility, fucks with his trajectory, dulls his every sense. Sebastian bites back a groan, slumped against the ledge of a high-rise’s roof, his head lulling against the metal.  
  
Blood drains away from him, washed away by the torrent in a swirl of murky liquid, black in the half-light of a thunderous night. Breathing hurt, but not as much as his hands.  
  
The easiest way to get a sniper to stop shooting at you is to cut off his fingers- god knows they would have if he’d let them, but the knife bit deep either way and now there’s a great gash in his wrist. His tendons are white in the light. He won’t be able to move his fingers properly for months; if his luck fails, he will never regain full control at all. And then what use will he be? Grinding his teeth, Sebastian pulls his injured arms closer into him, squinting into the darkness.  
  
He can’t smell anything, water dripping from his nose and running in rivulets down his neck. He can barely see, the building across from him a blur of coloured lights. He can barely hear over the sharp slap of rain hitting concrete, but his hearing has always been better than most and Jim’s footsteps are so achingly familiar he could recognize them over a jackhammer.  
  
“Jim,” he breathes, barely more than a sigh. The effort throws him into a fit of coughing- he spits out a dark, thick glob of blood and something else, leans his head back against the barrier to squint up at his employer.  
  
Moriarty looks younger, standing there in the rain, his hair flat against his neck and his skin slick, lips and cheeks red from the cold. His mouth has that slant it gets when he’s bored or displeased. Sebastian stares up at him and tries to focus- he knows what Jim looks like but he’s trying to _see_ , not recreate the image in his head, but the blood loss and the rain are conspiring against him. Jim barely seems to notice.  
  
The shorter man prods Moran’s right hand with his shoe. Catching the rubber sole under Sebastian’s wrist, he leverages his foot up, inspects the damage with a tilt of his head, this way and that.  
  
Sebastian bites his tongue and waits. He knows Jim hates it when he has to put his plans on hold because some piece of his game has gotten temporarily removed from play, and he knows the damage is bad. He won’t be able to shoot for months and that’s before anyone considers the deep cuts in his shoulders, his fractured ribs, his broken left leg.  
  
He can’t hide his wince when Jim carelessly tosses his arm back into the puddle he’s been seated (dying) in with an exasperated sigh.  
  
His control is faltering again; he thought he’d taught himself better. He can’t afford any more weaknesses than he already has, any more than Jim creates in him without an effort. (He’s already lost everything else, the least he could hope for is to keep face. He’s one of the best shooters in the world, certainly the best lawless sniper for hire after all- no matter how fast he would step in front of a bullet if Jim Moriarty told him to. No matter how inferior it makes him feel.)  
  
Jim crouches beside him; Sebastian struggles to meet his eye. He wishes dimly that he still had his coat, a torn tattered thing lying near his feet, because he can’t hide his shivering. It’s shameful.  
  
Jim’s displeasure is more obvious now, in the way his eyes are hard behind his wet eyelashes, in the way he’s systematically rubbing tension out of his right hand with his left thumb, in that way that his mouth is turned at the corners, in the lines under his eyes. Sebastian struggles to sit up straighter, do something, prove he isn’t a fuck up. He can do better next time, he’s usually better than this, they were good, so good, it’s not his fault he’s not perfect, only Moriarty is perfect, only _Jim_ , fuck, _fuck_ he is so _weak_.  
  
Moriarty already know. He sighs dramatically, tilts his head. His tongue darts out to taste the rainwater and he smirks, that hard, mean, sarcastic smirk he has when he’s been reminded that everyone else is just so much worse than he wishes they were.  
  
“I do hate it when my toys break,” he says finally, matter-of-fact, bored and blank. “It takes so long to get the next one working the way you like.”  
  
Moran’s breath falters. His heart stutters in his chest before redoubling strength, hammering against cracked ribs and renewing the flow of blood darkening the rain. It hurts like a void, a great black hole opening up between his ribs.  
  
Moriarty tucks his long hands into his pockets and stands.  
  
“Jim,” Sebastian calls. He flinches at the sound of his own voice, soft and shaking, desperate. Pathetic. He doesn’t have to say ‘please’ for Jim to hear it.  
  
Moriarty steps over his legs; the hard sole of an expensive shoe presses down squarely over Sebastian’s flayed-apart wrist. He cries out, regrets it immediately, but it’s too late.  
  
Too late for any of it to matter.  
  
When Jim Moriarty walks away, he leaves behind a track of blood.  
  
Sebastian Moran stares after him, shivering in the rain, until Jim disappears in the darkness. He’s lived through worse than this before. If he tries hard enough, he can drag himself to the stairwell. There are still people here. Somebody will call an ambulance. He can play the amnesia card- at the worst they discover who they are and call his father.  
  
He could survive, if he tries. It’ll be messy and unhappy and downright miserable, but he could. He could live, if he really tries, he _could_.  
  
But what is there left to live for, once Moriarty has left you behind?

  
  



End file.
